Pillow Biter
by nautical toilet
Summary: Crossdressing Bella. Her deranged school counselor. Lots of illegal sex.
1. Declaration of War

Crossdressing Bella. Her deranged school counselor. Lots of illegal sex.

* * *

**Pillow Biter:**

**_A Lust Story_**

* * *

There is always a brief and upsetting feeling in the pit of a person's stomach when they look at something and can't quite figure it out. In their minds they picture monkeys wearing vests while their organ grinders ejaculate their initials onto unsuspecting passersby. Not only that, but emaciated cats prowling in alleyways and chewing on leather shoes. When the realization doesn't strike them right away, when the vacant images do not stretch open their tight minds like probing fingers in a virgin anus, they shudder with revulsion and remind themselves not to go that route ever again.

Other people often like to fancy themselves as noble, as understanding. I will give this another chance, and _fuck you_, I will prevail, they will say to themselves.

God.

And when they finally see it, it ends with green cheeks and a fresh, startling outlook on the organ grinders and their monkeys and the cats and their leather shoes — they look at their hands and wonder if they too could shelve items like that in their gray matter. And sincerely, they hope not. They hope not.

Oh God, they hope not.

But a man in his chair, years ago, felt like this. He was planted on a toilet after watching _Gummo_, and pondering the keen social insights the film provided, like the diverse uses of tape (for your nipples, keeping bacon on the wall). This man, unlike most people who watched films like these, found it very powerful and ached to meet such a genius as Harmony Korine. In a few months' time, he also came to appreciate David Lynch for menstrual-representing chickens. It was just how life was, he concluded.

Of course, on mornings such as this one, where he looped his tie through and ran a lint roller over his shins, he was in a right state.

He fretted privately (goodness, he would _never_ confide something like this to his colleagues) that _they_ didn't understand the meaning of _anything_.

The secretary didn't comprehend that her chicken salad croissant was quite the symbol for Republican behavior, although she was a Democrat. Mr. Vice Principal was not fully aware that when he bit the end of his pen and chewed it like a carrot, he represented a child who was breastfed into late adolescence. Or that Jacob Black, the night-shift janitor, had repressed sexual desires because he mopped the cafeteria with a light blue solution that smelled like mosquito spray.

Mr. Cullen felt, as he did everyday when he went through the high school's doors, that it was his duty — nay, his _moral obligation_ — to stop his tongue and not say a word when his coworkers did very "stupid mundane things that they took for granted." He nearly bit his lip through the other day when he caught the sports director dabbing at a spot of tartar sauce with a napkin. That had been _torture_, plain and simple.

As Mr. Cullen found these startling insights almost unbearable to hold in, it was only natural he kept to his office as much as he could. The other school counselor, Ms. Stanley, was a vivacious and enterprising individual. He had very much faith that she could handle vague sproutings of bad parenting and wrist slashings, although she _habitually_ scratched the backs of her thighs with her day planner (from this, Mr. Cullen had concluded she held a deep fear of childbirth). She usually sent the ones with vacant expressions into his office, which, admittedly, was a rather gloomy place.

One of his most favorite students, a boy named Jasper Hale, frequently sat with his hands in his lap and explained in a very even tone that he had obscene fantasies about his sister Alice. "I see her, you know, performing oral sex on me. She has her hands wrapped around my penis and we're both enjoying ourselves. It starts out on the couch while Mom's cooking dinner and it ends with me getting her pregnant and her having a baby that kind of looks like Sylvester Stallone, only it can speak English better. We move to the suburbs and I get a job in accounting, of course." Mr. Cullen nodded sagely and interpreted this as Jasper's mushrooming fascination with Che Guevara and recommended some biographies to start out on. "Thanks a bunch," Jasper usually breathed before rushing back to trigonometry.

But Mr. Cullen's secret favorite, his _very_ secret favorite, was one that Ms. Stanley had had no luck with at all. Ms. Stanley brought some Colombian blend into his office one morning (which he ineffectively construed as a hint that Ms. Stanley was beginning to read a science fiction novel). Very sweetly she sat down and smoothed her skirt and said: "You wouldn't _believe_ it, Ed. This girl I have. My God. All she does is _sit there_. Like she doesn't want to be in my office when _she_ was the one to come to _me_ first. _She_ came to _me_! And Ed, I say this verbatim, I swear the words that came from her lips were, 'I think I have a problem, Ms. Stanley. I mean, I really need to talk to someone about it.' Then I said, 'Okay, let's schedule you an appointment.' So I did. She came in and said absolutely _nothing. Nada_," and she cleared her throat, looking away sheepishly, "I may as well tell you what I'm here for, do you hear? I was wondering if maybe you could help her out. Poor thing does seem to have some problems. _Big_ problems. I know those are your forte."

Mr. Cullen said he would.

To his absolute delight, Ms. Stanley sent her in the next afternoon. He was extremely happy, because he had no idea whatsoever what the girl's problem would be. He was ecstatic. He could've almost played a guessing came. Those were always very fun.

His soon-to-be very secret favorite student moseyed in at around one o'clock. Kind of apparent what her problem was, he knew, and this saddened him to bits.

"Hello," she murmured.

"Hello, Bella. Have a seat."

She dumped herself in the paisley loveseat, with her hands in her lap and her ears turning red like raw meat. Mr. Cullen interpreted the analogy in himself, quite lazily, that he wanted to have a steak for dinner that night. He grew quite smug with his self-analysis.

He said nothing; she said nothing. After a few moments, Bella spun her big protrudent eyeballs at him with sick determination. Her whole face somewhat resembled peppermint hand lotion now. They stared at each other for another ten minutes, at least. Mr. Cullen made no hurried movements, didn't move a muscle. Just stared back tranquilly until he imagined she was high on tranquilizer of silent comfort, that he could read right into the slim map of her mind.

"I read a_ book_," she said shortly.

"You did?"

She nodded and stared at the floor.

"What was the title?"

"_Death in Venice_," she croaked.

"Who's the author?"

"Thomas Mann."

Mr. Cullen paused to consider this briefly, as if it had great significance. He swished it around his mind for quite some time while Bella began to pick at the cuffs of her sleeves and twist the button around. It popped off. "I've never heard of him, or it, for that matter."

"Oh. Sorry."

"That's not your fault," he stared at her owlishly, "but I would like you to tell me what significance this book had in your problem. It seems it does, right?" Unknown to Mr. Cullen, this was his first successful prognosis. He, however, had assumed he had had quite dozens more. Dozens of thousands. Baker's dozens of thousands.

"Right — well," she began, "I thought if _I_ wanted to be picked up by my own Aschenbach and be a Tadzio, I'd have to make some changes."

"Go on."

"So I did. I made some changes," was all she said and shrugged. "My mom wanted me to come to one of you guys because she thought I was going crazy."

"Well, I don't think you are. If that's how you want to dress, by all means, you should dress that way. It actually looks very fitting on you, your frame. Those shorts might be violating the dress code, though. I'm not entirely sure. I'd have to consult my handbook, but that drawer won't open right now. I'll have to have Jacob look into it, won't I?"

Mr. Cullen stared right into Bella's face for an answer (that small attractiveness she managed to untangle, whoever this Tadzio was). "I suppose so," she muttered after a moment.

At this place in time, Mr. Cullen felt as though he were being propelled through time and space, having little doctor men observing him through the Hubble telescope and reacting with great gushes of intimacy to one other that, _Hey! It's a meteor! Oh God! I hope it doesn't come and make another crater! Please stay out in space, you!_ But he was determined he was going crash into the earth and make it shake. "Are you ready to go back to class yet?" he asked thickly.

"I don't ever want to go back to class."

"That's fine. In fact, I think I can book you for a meeting every day the rest of this week, if you like. Of course, if you want to go back to class —"

"—I'd rather not—"

"—you could be a bit behind in class—"

"—because I dislike my math teacher—"

"—and I wouldn't want you to not be—"

"—he's always really cold to me—"

"—able to graduate."

They were not quite sure what to do with themselves after that. Mr. Cullen eventually decided Bella could have a peaceful nap on the loveseat while he read the newspaper (which was full of things to psychoanalyze). Only, he found himself skimming the articles a bit warily, after only figuring that the sports writer, Mike Newton, fancied himself an iguana in a past life. Even that, Mr. Cullen had to concede, was a very lazy interpretation. And Bella. Well, Bella lay very squirmy on the loveseat. Her legs fit it just right, when she folded her knees just a hair. Her little khaki shorts rode up a bit. Mr. Cullen frowned and thought maybe this meant Bella was afraid of the dark. She rolled over and gazed at him with her strange bulgy eyes. He thought about a lot of things when she finally tossed her head back around to the squidgy throw pillow.

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen," he heard her murmur.

"You're welcome. But I have a question, Bella: Why couldn't you talk to Ms. Stanley about your problem?"

"She has a vagina. She wouldn't understand," said Bella, sounding quite muffled.

"You have a—a vagina, too, correct?"

"I do."

"Well, okay. That makes some sense."

"Yeah, I didn't feel comfortable in her office. It felt like she was going to make me start wearing girls clothes again or something. That's the last thing I want."

"I've always wanted a son," said Mr. Cullen, beginning the crossword puzzle. With an ink pen.

Bella gave a little slip of a smile when the bell rang and she re-fluffed her little Mia Farrow 'do. One of Mr. Cullen's favorite movies was _Rosemary's Baby_. Especially the scene where Rosemary's baby was conceived. He loathed to admit it, but that was the first time he had ever been, you know, (sprung). He concluded, some years later, that he would have bizarre sexual tastes. This was also one of the few things he guessed correctly.

* * *

Ping pong paddle.


	2. Elvis Syndrome

Ms. Stanley thought Mr. Cullen was hunky.

There was no reason for it, no rational seed of justice sprouting in her skull and taking nutrients that could be otherwise occupied with nourishing her sadly average intelligence quotient. There was, however, an irrational seed of discontent sprouting in her skull and taking nutrients that could be otherwise occupied with nourishing her sadly average intelligence quotient. Ms. Stanley felt the compulsion every time she batted an eyelash in Mr. Cullen's way.

(He ascribed this to her going through The Change.)

Hunky was, to Ms. Stanley, many of the following things: a house, a car, a job, a penis, no wife. Mr. Cullen shined brightly after inspection (of her nails, too).

Because Ms. Stanley would rather much be a _Mrs_. and not be confronted by down-on-their-luck lesbians who construed _Ms_. like Mr. Cullen would a ham sandwich, she concluded the best way to get into Mr. Cullen's bed and health insurance plan (no dental for her; damn it, there went the veneers!) would be to entice him with intelligent conversation (which she was totally capable of, by the way – it just took a little time to rev the old engine, mind you). And where to approach him? His conveniently dank dark office, of course, whereupon giggling, "You know how Freud interpreted _that_, don't you?" she would the conduct the ebullition of his symbolic snakestick.

It was a perfect plan, with only a few gaping holes in it. For instance, Ms. Stanley wasn't sure if he took cream in his coffee or had herbal tea. If it was early in the morning, she would produce a box of doughnuts from mid-air and ask him in a low seductive voice, "Do you want _to_ cream?" And he would have a bemused expression: "You meant_ a_?" "No, I meant _to_, silly. Oho. You cad!" He would rip off her sexy blouse and leave her blushing demurely in her lacy bra ("Oh, did I wear that today?"). Kiss her clavicle, tease her tatas, and caress her cleft through the THIN MATERIAL OF HER© panties.

It would go monochrome:

"No, Edward, we musn't until our wedding night!"

"But, my darling, I need you now!"

Her 20's wig and long red cigar would drop (and hopefully not start a fire). She would be a brunette again. She would lose her virginity to a co-worker who most likely was a virgin too, the way he acted.

Disappointed by the anticlimax of her fantasy, Ms. Stanley sagged in her office chair. Mr. Cullen walked by at that moment and analyzed this as Ms. Stanley's inability to communicate her appetite for crab meat.

Ms. Stanley's strict reliance on daytime (even nighttime) television for guidance may have been a disastrous faux pas in the eyes of some, but in her own eyes it was mercilessly insightful; the way Richard Dawson could smooch all those women (even the ugly ones) without sporting a ripe plum shiner the next day, the way Mr. Big could carefully avoid taking Carrie to the horsetrack so a jockey wouldn't accidentally mount her (that was only for him!), the way everyone on Hollywood Squares could pretend they weren't totally useless and has-beens (they deluded themselves for the paychecks!), the way Animal Planet could totally turn into a bin for human-rooted reality TV and throw in a Wild Kingdom every other Sunday to feed the zoophiles (but fools they were, for who would ever be sexually aroused by a crocodile or a tortoise?) all inspired Ms. Stanley to rush forward in her plan to seduce Mr. Cullen. If the results were calamitous (or rather, if she got caught), she could simply cringe in a Lucy-like manner at the vice principal's "You got some 'spainin' to do, Ms. Stanley!"

_Ophelia, my Ophelia_, she thought as she picked up the telephone to order chow mein noodles from Wong Fong Chong Long Dong's Really Good Chinese Food Make You Real Hungry Again and You Order More Food from Us.

Then Part 1-A-7899 of her plan went into effect. She spoke loudly after the greeter assaulted her ears with his pidgin English: "Yes, I'd like to order a number seven, hold the cat–"

_Make that TWO SEVENS_, her mind was screaming.

"Hi, there Ms. Stanley. I hear you're ordering Chinese. I'll take some. I haven't had dog in a while. They use high-quality cuts of Bichon Frise loin in their stir-fry," cut in a masculine voice.

Ms. Stanley whipped her head around to see–

...the squatty, irrelevant-to-the-plot lesbian gym teacher Vicky (Victoria), who prominently played the down-on-her-luck lesbian role in Ms. Stanley's uninteresting life. The poor woman didn't even get a break in her gym class, because all her female students were aware of her orientation and thusly wore snow pants and winter coats and ski masks. Even the fat ones. This prompted Vicky (Victoria) to say _What_ _the_ _hell_?

"Add a number two to that," Ms. Stanley muttered into the phone.

* * *

An unsettling feeling came over Mr. Cullen when he was in the john, shaking his penis off. This was due entirely to the fact that he had shaken it four times, when the proper way was three times whether it was clean or not. Any more and that was straight up masturbation. He kept himself from hyperventilating by assuring himself it was merely a product of his subconscious, and the subconscious was a messy ball of goop (that he was totally in love with, but that's beside the point).

"Deliver me from this horrible circumstance." The vice principal pissing in to the urinal next to him said amen to that, because he believed Mr. Cullen was refering to the horrors of matrimony.

All the omens were clear, all the roosters were crowing, all the signs were pointing, all the zebras were striping, all the warthogs were chasing to this small, horrifying fact grafted from a mind's leisurely stroll from alert consciousness on all levels of his own conscious: Bella was coming back today.

He hadn't seen her for a whole week after their last session. Saw her in the hallway, didn't wave. Said hello to her last Tuesday and was unrepentantly sad that his favorite visitor hadn't dared to come again. And that she was walking around in an Armani business suit splintered his faith in his ability to subjugate the human mind to his own larger and more elusive one.

It made him nervous – just downright nervous – to have to face his crossdressing darling. She looked so tailored and regal he wouldn't deign to tell her she had problems.

He would leave his office if she came. That's what he would do.


End file.
